


An Attendant to a Knight

by lionheartedghost



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Battle of Winterfell, Canon Divergent Ending, Mostly Canon Compliant, Oathfamily, Podrick Payne deserves more story, Season 8, Ser Brienne, Ser Podrick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2019-05-28
Packaged: 2020-03-26 12:59:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19006282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lionheartedghost/pseuds/lionheartedghost
Summary: Even as the dead overpowered him, even as he was thrown to the ground under the weight of them, it was the smell that was the worst. A rancid rotting odour so thick it forced its way down his throat and choked him. They reached for his face with their terrible bony fingers, tried to claw the sword from his grasp, snapped at him with their teeth an inch from his throat.He wouldn’t die like this. He wouldn’t.Podrick Payne’s journey to becoming a knight, from first squiring for Lady Brienne in season 4 up to the knighting he deserved in season 8.Canon compliant up to 8x03. Major divergence for 8x04.





	An Attendant to a Knight

**Author's Note:**

> Podrick Payne deserves more screen time than he got, so I wrote his story.  
> Some dialogue, particularly towards the beginning of this fic, was taken mostly verbatim from the show. There were some conversations that were so crucial to Pod’s arc that I couldn’t bear to leave them out.  
> Angsty backstory inspired by what I read on book Pod’s wikia page  
> Thank you to Lucy for enabling me and to Harriet for cheering me on.  
> This is my first fic in a really long time, so I hope you enjoy!

Podrick Payne had never been a great squire. It was fine. He’d long since realised that, but it wasn’t for lack of trying. He was sure Lord Tyrion had kept him around out of pity at first and later out of gratitude, a thanks for him seeing the axe aimed at his lord at the Battle of the Blackwater and thrusting a spear into the hulking soldier before him, more as a knee-jerk reaction than as a deliberate move. Then Lord Tyrion’s sudden imprisonment for supposedly killing the king had left him without a lord to squire for, and the eyes in the Red Keep who had barely noticed him before were suddenly watching him more closely than he could ever feel comfortable with.  
  
That was how he’d come to be in the service of Lady Brienne, who’d begrudgingly allowed him to tag along on her quest to find the Stark girls more as a favour to the Kingslayer than anything else.  
  
“My brother owes him a debt. He’s not safe here. You’d be keeping him from harm. It’s chivalry.”  
  
And that’s what it was, in truth. Podrick wasn’t used to long rides, hadn’t slept outside for more than a few nights since he was an orphaned child, and it never occurred to him to take the skin off the damned rabbit before he cooked it. Lady Brienne would huff in exasperation or roll her eyes or snap at him to at least try to use his brain, and he would apologise until ‘sorry milady’ became the first words ready on his tongue.  
  
She knew he was hopeless. She’d told him to go, freed him from his oath, but he’d stayed all the same.  
  
“What do you think will happen if you leave?” She’d asked him.  
  
“They’ll say I wasn’t a very good squire,” he’d replied. Whether it was true or not, he didn’t want that to be the only thing people remembered him for.  
  
He’d wondered if he might wake up in the morning and find that she’d ridden on without him, keen as she was to leave him behind. She’d still been there, though, perfecting her sword swing. She chastised him for sleeping in and he apologised as he’d become so used to doing, and she had shaken her head in frustration. But she hadn’t left him.  
  
When he’d fallen behind, his horse ignoring his attempts to direct it back to the centre of the path, she’d rolled her eyes at him. Then she’d tugged at her own horse’s reins and waited for him to catch up.  
  
When he’d tried, and failed, to stifle a yawn after a day’s hard ride, she’d pretended she hadn’t noticed. Half an hour later she’d suggested they stop for the night.  
  
“You’d better set up camp under cover,” she’d said as she dismounted, glancing up at the tree branches above them. “There’s rain in the air.”  
  
There hadn’t been a cloud in the sky.  
  
She’d seen him trying to rub away the ache in his shoulder one morning, a result of one too many nights spent sleeping on hard ground. She’d called for him to stop as an inn came into view; they’d earnt a night in featherbeds, she’d said, and they deserved a hot meal not cooked by him. A roof over their heads. A bed to sleep on. Cooked food and cups of ale.  
  
“But don’t get drunk,” she’d instructed him.  
  
“No milady.”  
  
The boy at the tavern, as luck would have it, had told them that he’d seen Arya Stark travelling with the Hound some time ago. Podrick’s eyes had lit up as he’d remembered Lord Tyrion pressing him to learn the intricacies of each of the great houses, remembered the branches of House Stark, every one of Lady Arya’s possible living relatives. They were close to the Eyrie, he’d told Lady Brienne. Arya had an aunt there.  
  
She’d thought for a moment, then nodded. “Ready the horses.”  
  
And they’d found her. Arya Stark and the Hound, travelling together, just as the boy had said. It should have been so easy. But Arya hadn’t wanted their help. Lady Brienne had fought the Hound and won, thrown him over a cliff and left him for dead, and when they’d looked back Arya Stark had vanished.  
  
“Which way did she go, Podrick?” He’d wheeled around, searching the hills as if Lady Arya might appear. She hadn’t, of course.  
  
The only thing they could do was turn their attention to finding Lady Sansa. Her half-brother was at Castle Black: surely they should head north?  
  
“We’re a few days’ ride from the Kingsroad,” she’d said when he’d suggested it.  
  
“But that will take us-”  
  
“Us?” She’d cut him off. “The only reason you’re here is because Jaime Lannister told me you weren’t safe in the capital. You’re hundreds of miles from King’s Landing. No-one knows what you look like. No-one cares. You’re safe.”  
  
She wasn’t wrong. Nobody knew who he was this far north, and he wasn’t important enough for them to go to any extreme effort to find him anyway. He wouldn’t be surprised if they thought he was dead by now.  
  
“But I’m your squire.” And once again, she’d reminded him of the little detail he liked to overlook. She wasn’t a knight. Only knights had squires. Therefore, he wasn’t one. But she was as good as a knight to him, should’ve been knighted a dozen times over, so he pretended she hadn’t spoken.  
  
“Where would I go?” He’d asked instead.  
  
“I don’t care. I’m not your mother.”  
  
As it happened, his mother hadn’t cared what happened to him either.  
  
He’d pressed her further, repeated the oath she’d dedicated herself to fulfilling.  
  
“Arya doesn’t want my protection,” she’d said.  
  
He’d shrugged. “Sansa still might.”  
  
“Will you shut your mouth?” She’d snapped. “I didn’t ask for your advice.” She didn’t want anyone following her, she’d said. She didn’t want to be a leader.  
  
Podrick had shut his mouth.  
  
They’d found Lady Sansa under the protection of Lord Baelish. Once again Lady Brienne had tried to pledge her service to one of Catelyn Stark’s daughters; and once again, she was refused. Regardless, whatever thoughts had made her consider abandoning her quest when Lady Arya had denied her offer had long since left her. They would stay close by in case Lady Sansa needed them. And they were a they again, an us. There’d been no more talk of the two of them parting ways.

*

He knew he talked too much for a squire. He observed aloud every time he noticed a new type of tree or saw a rabbit dart through the undergrowth; he commented on how different the weather was in this part of Westeros to another; he muttered to himself as he cooked their dinner just to have noise to break through the silence. He could hear himself doing it, cringed at how ceaselessly the words poured from him, but he never seemed able to temper them. He knew Lady Brienne ignored him most of the time; he had a suspicion she tuned him out as background noise.

“Where _is_ your mother, Podrick?”

“Milady?” Her question had caught him by surprise; she’d been silent for the majority of their day’s ride. As he thought about it then, he wasn’t sure she’d ever asked him about his family, not in all the time they’d been together.

“Your mother,” she repeated. “Did you leave her behind in King’s Landing?”

‘No, milady.” He’d barely thought of his mother in years, and only in passing even when Lady Brienne had asserted that she wasn’t his however many weeks ago.

“Is she… Is she alive?” Lady Brienne asked carefully.

‘She may still live, milady,” he said, “but I wouldn’t know her face now. I haven’t seen her since I was a child.” Never mind knowing her face now, he hadn’t known her face for years. He had long since forgotten it; he couldn’t remember the colour of her eyes or the shape of her face any more than he remembered the sound of her voice or the scent of her hair.

“What about the rest of House Payne?”

“None I know well, milady,” he’d replied with an apologetic smile. “Only me.”

She’d glanced sidelong at him. “Your father?”

“Killed in the Greyjoy rebellion, milady.”

“I’m sorry, Podrick.” Her voice had been stiff, awkward. She didn’t seem to know whether to catch his eye or to avoid looking at him altogether. Her hands had gripped and ungripped the reins of her horse, her knuckles showing white through the pale flesh.

“No matter, milady,” he’d said brightly. He’d never grieved the father he’d scarcely known, and he’d soon forgotten the mother he had. He had nothing left of them; nothing couldn’t wound like memories could.

He’d told her about Ser Lorimer too, about the borrowed ham and the noose that his family name had spared him from. How he’d been given to Lord Tyrion, who had been nothing but kind to him.

“All your lords have been very kind to you,” she’d said, turning her back to him. “All except me. I’m sorry you had to squire for such a nasty person.”

He’d watched her earnestly. “I’m not sorry. You’re the best fighter I’ve ever seen. You beat the Hound. I’m proud to be your squire.”

Because he was. They hadn’t managed to convince Arya Stark to travel under their protection, but Lady Brienne had defeated one of the most notorious fighters in the seven kingdoms in single combat, and that wasn’t something to be taken lightly.

“I’m sorry I’m always snapping at you,” she’d said.

“If you didn’t snap at me I wouldn’t learn anything.” Pouring wine for Lord Tyrion was all very well, but he’d already gleaned more from Lady Brienne than he’d ever learnt in King’s Landing.  
She’d promised to teach him to fight then, and how to ride, how to _properly_ ride.

“You want to be a knight, Pod?” She’d asked. She couldn’t knight him herself, but she could teach him all she knew, if that was what he wanted. It was. More than anything. He was a mediocre squire at best; sometimes he felt as useful to Lady Brienne as a stray dog that wouldn’t let her alone. But he did want to be a knight. ‘Ser Podrick’ had a nice ring to it.

She’d told him about her own past that night, recounting the ball her father had thrown in her honour. The boys there had mocked her, humiliated her, until Renly Baratheon had swooped in to save her. She meant to avenge Renly, knew deep down that Stannis had sent the shadow that had killed his brother, and she intended to be the one to exact justice. She’d disappeared into herself then, lost in memory. Podrick had ducked his head and poked at the fire, throwing on added kindling until Lady Brienne had shaken herself from her thoughts and chided him for stifling the flames.

*

Snow had fallen, blanketing the fields around them with a startling white. He’d pulled at the sleeves of his tunic until the fabric covered his hands, tucking his cloak tighter around himself to stave off the cold. Lady Sansa may have refused their offer of help before, but Lady Brienne had insisted they remain nearby, ready for any signal that they were needed. They had been camped out for weeks, watching the window of the highest tower of Winterfell for a sign. Waiting. Freezing. Podrick was sure his breeches were ruined from kneeling in the dirt, but it seemed the least of his worries, all things considered. He had to keep the fire going. He had to find something, anything he could cook to feed himself and Lady Brienne. He had to tend to the horses, and they were growing restless with inactivity.

It wasn’t Lady Brienne’s promise to Catelyn Stark that tore them away in the end, but her promise to herself. Her promise to seek vengeance for Renly Baratheon. Stannis’ armies were marching on Winterfell. This was the chance she’d been waiting for.

It wasn’t his fight, but Pod stayed close by her side as she weaved her way through the still-warm bodies of Baratheon men. How Lady Brienne could pass them unperturbed he didn’t know; Podrick had kept his eyes on the dead men, wary of desperate fingers that might curl around his ankles and beg for help, cautious of the dying’s attempts to cast their weapons at whatever souls passed by, determined to take anyone they could with them.

She’d spotted Stannis amidst the wood, his back pressed up against a tree. She’d turned to Podrick long enough to bid him wait where he was; she was halfway to Stannis before he’d even formulated an argument for why he should go with her. But he was only her squire. She wanted to do this alone. He would wait for her, and when she needed him again, he would be ready.

Lady Brienne didn’t make him wait long. Once Stannis had been executed she made her way briskly through the trees towards him again. He’d bowed his head to her and followed at her heel.

“What now, milady?” He’d asked.

Brienne had stopped suddenly, her attention fixed on Winterfell. There, in the window of the highest tower, was the faint but unmistakable glint of a candle.

“Now,” Lady Brienne said, “we find Lady Sansa.”

She had been moments from being retaken by Bolton men when they’d found her with Theon Greyjoy. Lady Brienne had ridden ahead in a clang of steel and a flurry of snow, equal parts pure determination and unshakeable courage. Podrick had followed; he would always follow her. He knew his swordsmanship was still shoddy, but it was a damn sight better than it had been thanks to a few months of her tutelage.

He’d held his own against one of them, had to remind himself not to get carried away with pride, not to let hubris cloud his judgement. It almost had. The knight he fought on foot was a better fighter than his comrade, more than a match for a squire whose sword-arm ached after a few minutes of steady training, never mind genuine combat.

He had fallen, his sword out of reach, and as he’d scrabbled backwards, nails digging into the snow beneath him, he’d been certain he was about to die.

At least Lady Brienne wasn’t looking his way. He’d hate for her to see, hate for her to feel responsible somehow, as if she could have taught him better.

He just wasn’t a great swordsman.

But then Theon Greyjoy had picked up a sword - was it his sword? he couldn’t be sure - and plunged it into the back of the man who meant to kill him. Podrick had stared up at him; Theon Greyjoy had stared back.

He’d got to his feet in time to see his lady kneel before Lady Sansa and offer her services (and, by extension, his services) once more. This time, Lady Sansa had accepted.

*

He’d never felt as southern as he did when they arrived at Castle Black. He knew the men laughed at how he shivered in the northern chill. He’d hoped the weeks spent sleeping on frozen ground might have readied him for the Wall, but it had barely come close. Training had kept him warm, though. His arms had ached with bruises from every time he’d hit the ground, and his face had burned red with the accompanying jeers that followed.

“Again,” Lady Brienne had said every time he’d fallen.

He got to his feet and tried again, over and over and over until she’d finally let him stop for the day.

He couldn’t say he’d been sad to leave the Wall when the day had come. Lady Brienne had been reluctant to leave Lady Sansa, that much was obvious, but retaking Winterfell required men, and someone had to go to the Blackfish and plead their case.

Lannister men had beaten them there. The Kingslayer and his army had surrounded Riverrun, would easily take the castle come nightfall. Lady Brienne had left Podrick outside Ser Jaime’s tent while she tried to negotiate their way to Lord Brynden, and Pod hadn’t minded. The army marched by him, armour polished, every step in sync, and he’d smiled despite himself. That could’ve been him in a different life. If Lord Tyrion had never been arrested, if Pod hadn’t needed to flee King’s Landing, maybe he’d have been a soldier by now.

A soldier for a boy king kept under his mother’s thumb. A king he didn’t believe in.

Even if that had been so, nobody in King’s Landing would have had the patience to teach him to fight, not as readily as Lady Brienne had.

An arm had grabbed him around the throat. He’d clutched at it as it pulled him off-balance, and suddenly he’d been looking up into the cackling face of a man he hadn’t seen in years.

“Getting a bit old to be a squire, aren’t we?” Bronn had pushed him away with a laugh, clapping him on the shoulder as Pod gulped air back into his lungs. “Podrick fucking Payne. I thought you’d be dead by now.”

“Not quite,” he’d snapped. He glanced briefly at the entrance to the tent, thankful Lady Brienne hadn’t been stood there to see how easily he could still be snuck up on.

He’d told Bronn Lady Brienne was teaching him to fight, if only to get the man to stop talking about who might be fucking who, and Bronn had quirked an eyebrow at him, asked how he’d still been able to sneak up and murder him if he wanted to if that was the case.

“That’s a different sort of fighting,” he’d argued. Bronn hadn’t disagreed. He’d even offered to show him that sort of fighting.

Then Bronn had hit him across the face for good measure.

“Lesson number one,” he’d said as Pod had scowled back at him, “assume everyone wants to hit you. Because they do, Pod. Everyone wants to hit a fucking squire.”

In fairness to him, Bronn had shown him how to throw a punch properly, at least, and he’d only taken a handful of shots at Podrick while he did it.

“It’s that face,” Bronn had shrugged, extending a hand to help him up. “If you don’t want to get punched by some bitter old knight, don’t look so happy to be here.”

They hadn’t managed to convince the Blackfish, or any of his men, for that matter, to return north with them. The two of them had escaped, just barely, Podrick rowing the boat while Lady Brienne watched the shores for Lannister men who meant them harm. They’d been spotted from the castle battlements, a lone figure silhouetted against the night sky, and Podrick had held his breath as he’d waited for the alarm to sound. But it hadn’t. The figure had raised a hand, and Lady Brienne had raised hers in return. The Kingslayer.

They’d continued silently on, their faces illuminated at intervals by the light of the moon breaking through wisps of cloud.

“What happened to your face?” Lady Brienne asked suddenly, her head canted to the right as she regarded him. He’d frowned at her for a moment before he remembered, prodding lightly at the mark above his cheekbone with his fingertips.

“Ser Bronn, milady,” he said. “He was teaching me to fight.”

She’d furrowed her brow at him.

“Not that you’re not teaching me how to fight,” Pod’s eyes widened. “He was teaching me a different kind of fighting. Not with swords.”

“I see,” she’d narrowed her eyes almost imperceptibly. “And how did that go?”

Podrick had opened his mouth to speak, paused, and closed it again. He’d chewed the inside of his cheek, twisting his mouth into a grimace, and caught her eye. He’d waited for her to roll her eyes at him. Instead, she’d laughed, a low chuckle that seemed so out of place after their limited success that he could only stare incredulously at her. Then, slowly, he’d grinned back. He ran his fingers over his bruise once more, readjusted his grip on the oars and rowed.

*

As cold as the North was, Podrick liked Winterfell. It was warmer than the Wall had been at least, and all things considered, it was the safest he’d felt in years. Lady Brienne had fulfilled her promise and seen both Stark girls safely home, even if she insisted she’d had little to do with it.  
  
“You’re too hard on yourself, milady,” he’d told her.

“I’m not a…” she’d begun. Then she’d caught herself. "Thank you, Podrick.” There’d been no reason for her to thank him, of course. All he’d done was tell the truth. It was what any good squire would do, and he was finally starting to get the hang of it.

Just as he was beginning to grow accustomed to the North, they’d been sent south again by Lady Sansa. Queen Cersei had sent a note of parley to Winterfell, and there was no-one Lady Sansa trusted more to act as her representative than Lady Brienne.

He never thought he’d go back to King’s Landing after the way he’d left it. His lord imprisoned for regicide. The other Lannister brother helping to smuggle him out of the city. His lady reluctant to take on a squire who’d done little more than wash clothes and pour wine. But look at him now.

Bronn had been waiting for them when they’d arrived, and this time Pod had been anticipating the elbow aimed at his ribs. Bronn had laughed and punched him in the shoulder instead, commended him on still somehow being alive another year down the line. Lady Brienne had cleared her throat and he’d caught sight of the expression she pulled when she was trying vehemently not to roll her eyes. Bronn had bowed to her, a little more exaggerated an action than necessary, and he and the men at his disposal had led them along the path to meet Jon Snow and the Dragon Queen and whomever else they’d managed to pick up along the way.

He’d never considered the possibility that he might come face to face with Lord Tyrion again. Nevertheless, there he was. The man whose axe Podrick had been given all those years ago.

He’d broken away from the crowd, letting Dothraki and proclaimed monarchs and various advisors file past him as he waited for Lord Tyrion to catch up to him. They’d walked together, himself and Lord Tyrion and Ser Bronn.

“A strange place for a reunion," Tyrion had said.

“It is, milord,” Podrick agreed. Tyrion had smiled.

“I don’t think I’m anyone’s lord anymore, Podrick.” Maybe not in any official capacity, but he was still a lord as far as Podrick was concerned, in the same way that Lady Brienne was a knight and Ser Bronn was an idiot. Not that he’d ever say that to his face.

Truth be told, he’d been looking forward to watching the gathering of the most powerful minds in Westeros, to seeing the contents of the crate Jon Snow had brought back with him besides. But Bronn had suggested they go for a drink and leave the lords and ladies to their business, and Lady Brienne had nodded him away, like a child sent from the room while the adults conversed. He tried his best to keep the disappointment from his face, lest Bronn ridicule him for sulking.

“What’s in the crate?” Bronn asked him as he set a pint of ale down in front of them both.

“It’s from beyond the wall,” he’d replied. “We’d have seen it for ourselves if you weren’t so keen to get drunk.”

“I’m a Ser.” Bronn raised his cup with one hand and pointed a finger at Podrick with the other. “I could run you through for insolence if I wanted.”

“Then you’d be drinking alone.”

Bronn hummed thoughtfully and clinked his cup against Pod’s. “You’re right. Cheers.”

*

They’d returned to Winterfell as soon as the meeting was over. Jon Snow and Queen Daenerys and Lord Tyrion and the endless list of others had joined them later, the castle stretched to bursting trying to accommodate for armies of Dothraki and Unsullied that Lady Sansa’s food stores could never hope to feed. Tension hung heavy. The Northerners turned to stone every time Queen Daenerys spoke, their eyes as cold as the frost in the air. The dead were marching towards them, the new queen was far from beloved, and winter had well and truly come

Then he’d arrived this morning, his face concealed by the hood of a traveller’s cloak. He’d been taken straight to the council chambers. Podrick had been stood alongside Lady Brienne in the corridor, watching the procession of guards escorting the new arrival. She had stiffened as they caught sight of the man’s face.

The Kingslayer had smiled at them as he’d passed, as calm as a man out for a stroll rather than someone being marched along the halls of Winterfell with his arms pinioned behind him. Lady Brienne had watched him disappear along the corridor, her hand resting on the hilt of her sword as it so often did when she was taken aback. She strode forwards suddenly, already halfway along the corridor before she remembered he was there.

“Go down to the yard and find someone to spar with.”

“Milady, I-”

“Go, Podrick.” She hadn’t wasted another moment, already taking off after the Kingslayer and the queen’s men.

He’d never be privy to council meetings as long as he was a squire. He tried not to take it personally as he found his way out to the yard, searching for spare armour and a practice sword. The dead were coming, after all. Better to practice before it was too late.

*

“Ser Jaime was impressed by your swordsmanship.”

“Milady?” Podrick looked up from the breastplate he’d been polishing.

“Seems to think you’ve come a long way.”

“That’s kind of him to say, milady.”

“I suppose he’s right.” Lady Brienne narrowed her eyes as she scrutinised him. “You’ve done well, Pod. You should be proud.”

Podrick smiled. “I had a good teacher, milady. I’m only sorry it took me so long.”

“Everyone starts somewhere.”

Pod nodded. He turned the breastplate over in his hands, searching the surface of the metal for blemishes, and carefully set it down on the table in front of him. “Milady?”

“Yes, Podrick.”

“The dead are coming here tonight.”

“I know.”

“In case there isn’t… in case there isn’t an afterwards,” he chewed the inside of his lip. Lady Brienne regarded him uncertainly.

“There will be an afterwards, Podrick,” she told him. “I didn’t suffer months of your cooking to die here.”

Podrick huffed a laugh. “Yes, milady. But if there isn’t, I wanted you to know that I meant what I said before, after you fought the Hound. I am proud to be your squire. I know a squire attends a knight and you aren’t a knight, but you are. I mean, you _should_ be. You’re a braver person and a better soldier than any knight I’ve ever met. I’m honoured to have served you, milady, and I’m grateful for everything you’ve taught me.”

Lady Brienne pressed her lips together and nodded, glancing back at the dwindling fire. She was silent.

“Milady?” Podrick rose slowly to his feet. “I apologise if I overstepped.”

Brienne shook her head and turned back to him with a smile. “Not at all, Podrick. Thank you. I…” She took a breath so deep that her shoulders shook as she exhaled. “A knight could not have had a more loyal squire.”

Podrick bowed his head.

Brienne stood. “I doubt the dead will be offended if they can’t see their faces in my armour. That’ll do.”

He knew she’d never truly got used to having someone help her with her armour, but she allowed him to anyway. He wondered if she still felt guilty for the way she’d snapped at him the first time he’d tried to help her years ago. He hoped not.

She surveyed him as he buckled the last of her straps into place. “You need armour too.”

Podrick glanced around the room. The armoury stocks were already low.

Lady Brienne rifled through what was left, pulling out mail, pauldrons, a cuirass, and thrusting them at him.

“It’s better than nothing. Put them on.”

He’d obliged as best he could. The mail was marginally too big, the pauldrons sat heavy on his shoulders, and the straps of the cuirass were infinitely more difficult when they were on him and not on somebody else. He’d helped Lady Brienne put on her own armour hundreds of times without a fault, but now his fingers shook and the straps slipped from his grasp as he tried to secure the armour that was meant to protect him from the dead. He cursed under his breath.

“Here.” Lady Brienne knocked his hands out of the way and fed the straps through for him.

“It doesn’t feel right this way round,” he smiled weakly as he watched her adjust his pauldrons.

“This is a one-off,” she said. “Don’t expect me to be waiting on you after the battle.”

“Of course not, milady.”

She found him a dragonglass sword and handed it to him, scrutinising him as he sliced through the air with it experimentally. She waited as he sheathed the sword at his hip.

“Come on.” She turned, sweeping from the room. He followed close behind her.

“Where are we going, milady?”

“Somewhere less dismal than this.”

*

They stumbled across the Lannister brothers sharing a drink by a roaring fire, and for a moment Podrick wondered if Lady Brienne had brought them there intentionally. By the way she balked at the Kinglayer’s- at _Ser Jaime’s_ presence, she hadn’t. But the Lannisters had invited them to stay, and Brienne had reluctantly allowed him half a cup of wine. It wasn’t his fault Lord Tyrion’s idea of ‘half a cup’ meant ‘pour until the wine spills through your fingers’, but he wasn’t complaining. Ser Davos had joined them in search of a hearth to warm himself by, and the strange wildling man who had made no secret of his infatuation with Lady Brienne had appeared, told them a story of how a giant’s wife had suckled him for three months, and proceeded to spill most of a horn of milk down his front.

As happy as he was in their company, as warm as the wine felt in his chest, Podrick couldn’t shake the knowledge that they were waiting to die. There were six of them in that room; how many of them would make it through the night? He’d scarcely been following the conversation, the flames of the fire so much more enticing to watch, but he looked up at Lord Tyrion’s words.

“I think we might live.” And yes, naming the battles the knights in the room had survived was somewhat reassuring, but it was no guarantee that they’d survive _this_ one, against opponents who had already died once before.

A slip of the tongue, then, a mistaken ‘Ser’ in front of Brienne’s name instead of ‘Lady’, and the atmosphere changed. She’s not a Ser? The wildling man questioned, baffled. Lady Brienne replied with feigned indifference that women couldn’t be knights. Tradition. She found his eyes across the room and he gave her a meagre smile that barely tugged at the corners of his lips. The wildling man frowned.

“Fuck tradition.”

Pod agreed.

“I don’t even want to be a knight,” Lady Brienne insisted. Podrick resisted the urge to raise his eyebrows at her, but he couldn’t keep the disbelief from his face. She pretended she hadn’t noticed. The wildling man refused to drop it. He’d knight her if he were a king, he announced. Ten times over.

“You don’t need a king.” Ser Jaime turned to contemplate them all. “Any knight can make another knight. I’ll prove it.”

He crossed the room, his sword held ready in one hand. “Kneel, Lady Brienne.”

Brienne looked across at Ser Jaime; Podrick had never seen her look so much like a hunted animal staring down a blade. She scoffed and turned away with a shake of her head.

“Do you want to be a knight or not?” Ser Jaime pressed. “Kneel.”

She’d hesitated. Then she’d looked at Pod.

Of all the people in the room, the wildling man who’d insisted he would knight her if he could, the knight genuinely offering to, the Hand of the Queen, and the famed Davos the Onion Knight, it was him she looked to. His opinion she sought out. His assurance she wanted.

He nodded at her encouragingly. She swallowed. Then, carefully, she got to her feet, set down her cup, and crossed the floor to kneel before Ser Jaime. He lifted his sword to her shoulder. He took a breath. And he said the words.

“In the name of the warrior, I charge you to be brave.

“In the name of the father, I charge you to be just.

“In the name of the mother, I charge you to defend the innocent.

“Arise, Brienne of Tarth. A knight of the seven kingdoms.”

Even from this distance Pod could see the unshed tears glistening in her eyes. The wildling man started to applaud just seconds before he did, clapping until the palms of his hands stung.

Lady Brienne- Ser Brienne was almost giddy as she retook her seat, too elated even to grimace at the wildling man when he’d leant close enough for his spittle to land on her armour. Pod sighed to himself. What a waste of polish.

She looked across at him, still beaming, wider than he’d ever seen her smile, and he returned it with his own grin. She was finally a real knight. He only hoped they both lived long enough to celebrate it.

The room quietened gradually as the hours stretched out before them. Lord Tyrion snuck him another cup of wine when Ser Brienne wasn’t looking, although from the smile still on her lips he doubted she would’ve objected too strongly. Besides, even if the wine clouded his judgement, the adrenaline already thrumming in his veins would clear his vision for the battle.

Ser Jaime was the one to suggest they get some rest, although how any of them were expected to sleep with an army of the dead coming ever nearer was beyond him. Lord Tyrion shook his head, bade them stay a little longer, even with Ser Davos’ realisation that they’d somehow finished the wine.

“How about a song?” Lord Tyrion asked the room.

Nobody answered him. He singled them out: Ser Davos. Ser Brienne. Even the wildling man. They turned him down one by one.

Podrick remembered hearing the Lannister men before the Battle of the Blackwater, singing choruses of The Rains of Castamere long into the night. That probably wasn’t the best choice to sing in the North, even if they had welcomed the Lannister brothers into their castle. He knew Jenny of Oldstones though. He’d learnt it from Ser Lorimer when he’d squired for him. That wasn’t contentious. Not as far as he knew, anyway.

He’d probably die tonight, and he was perhaps just the slightest bit drunk anyway. Jenny of Oldstones it was.

He stared at the flames as he sang. The fire crackled and spat, orange sparks drifting above the logs before they fell through the smoke to die in the soot. Nobody told him to stop. He took that as a good sign.

Silence fell again as he reached the end of the song. He looked away from the fire and felt the weight of five pairs of eyes on him. Pod swilled the wine around the bottom of his cup.

“Podrick.”

Pod’s head snapped up. “Yes, mil- sorry. Ser?”

“I believe I said half a cup.”

Pod snorted.

“Is there anything you can’t do, Podrick Payne?” Lord Tyrion gave him a crooked smile.

“Cook rabbits, my lord.” Pod drained the last of his wine.

Tyrion barked out a laugh. “Then thank the Gods you weren’t my cook.”

The attention left him. He watched them in turn: the wildling shaking the last of the milk from the horn in his hand; Ser Brienne running her fingers over Oathkeeper’s hilt; Ser Davos breathing deeply, his eyes closed, finding a way to rest after all; Lord Tyrion staring morosely into his empty wine cup; and Ser Jaime, who seemed completely and utterly entranced by Ser Brienne. Pod knew Ser Jaime could be a good man, despite his nickname; he’d been the one to convince Ser Brienne to take him, after all. But there was something deeper about the way Ser Jaime looked at her, something so personal that Podrick felt guilty for having witnessed it.

Ser Jaime noticed him watching. Podrick wondered if he might say something. Instead, Ser Jaime gave him a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Podrick looked away first.

He thought he’d imagined it at first, the low, braying sound that rumbled through the walls of Winterfell. It came again, loud enough for Ser Davos to open his eyes. Ser Brienne’s hand stilled on Oathkeeper’s hilt, fingers wrapping around the gold. Then came the third cry of the horn. For a moment, Podrick wondered whether his heart had stopped beating altogether.

“Well.” Lord Tyrion nodded to himself. “I expect to see you all once we’ve vanquished the dead. None of you have my permission to join them.”

“Good luck, gentlemen.” Ser Davos stretched as he stood, his shoulders cracking in protest. He paused. “And lady,” he rectified with an apologetic smile. Ser Brienne barely heard him.

The wildling man followed Ser Davos to the door, stopping for just long enough to cast a less-than-subtle look back at Ser Brienne. Podrick wouldn’t have blamed her for ignoring him, but she gave the man a curt nod that spurred a grin so wide he could count the man’s teeth.

Pod listened to the sounds of their footsteps fading along the hallway. His heart had started to beat again, only now it thundered with such force in his chest that he wondered how it hadn’t broken his ribs yet.

“I’ll see you both on the left flank,” Ser Jaime said, an empty smile painted on his face. He followed after Ser Davos and the wildling man, chin raised with steely determination.

Tyrion was only a few paces behind his brother, but he turned to give them one final look. ‘Ser Brienne,” he said. “It was an honour to see you knighted. And Podrick…you’re a good man. Gods be with you.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Podrick managed. Brienne nodded, just as she had for the wildling. Lord Tyrion swept from the room.

That left the two of them.

Ser Brienne glanced back at him. There was a look on her face he didn’t recognise. Was she… was she as terrified as he was? Just as quickly as the look had appeared it vanished again, and she spun on her heel to follow after the others. “Keep up, Podrick.”

Could she hear his heart hammering? Could she see the fear written clear as day all over him? If she could, she didn’t mention it as they hurried through the halls, the clanking and ringing of their armour echoing off the stone walls.

The crowd parted before her as they reached the courtyard, soldiers pausing to bow to their commander. Podrick stayed as close to her as he could.

“Stay focused,” she said as they crossed the field outside Winterfell’s gates. “Keep your blade up. Remember what you’ve learnt. You’re a better swordsman than you know.” She pressed her lips together in a thin line, fixing him with a look so solemn he felt sure she could see to the very heart of him.

“Yes, Ser.”

They reached the left flank and weaved their way through until they found the front line; would anyone have honestly expected Ser Brienne of Tarth to position herself anywhere but the forefront of the action? Ser Jaime nodded to them both as they took their positions on either side of him. If this was how he was meant to die, Pod thought, there were worse fighters he could go out alongside.

They waited. Podrick watched his breath freeze in the air in front of him, evaporating into nothing before his eyes. To his left and his right and what felt like miles behind him he could hear shuffling, the rattling of armour, nervous coughs, boots against the snow. The darkness stretched out before them with no sign of the dead, but perhaps they were already there, only impossible to see without light.

A woman appeared, a woman in a red cloak who somehow brought fire to the Dothraki. The Red Woman, the whispered voices called her. Whoever she was, Podrick thanked the Gods for sending her. At least they’d be able to see what they were fighting now.

He hadn’t noticed the army of the dead arrive until the cavalry had been sent charging towards them, burning swords raised high above their heads. Their fires had grown further and further away as they’d approached the enemy, and for a moment Podrick thought they might defeat them without any need for the rest of them to join the fight. The catapults flung great flaming rocks overhead, unquestionable destruction even for the dead, surely.

The fires blinked out, one by one, until there was only darkness ahead of them again.

The remains of the cavalry charged back behind the lines, battered and weaponless and depleted beyond belief.

The distant shapes they had charged came ever closer.

And death came rushing up to meet them.

The dead crashed against them as a wave crashes against the rocks: furious, incessant, with no end in sight.

Even as the dead overpowered him, even as he was thrown to the ground under the weight of them, it was the smell that was the worst. A rancid rotting odour so thick it forced its way down his throat and choked him. They reached for his face with their terrible bony fingers, tried to claw the sword from his grasp, snapped at him with their teeth an inch from his throat.

He wouldn’t die like this. He wouldn’t.

Podrick had swung the sword in his hands with as much force as he could muster, freeing up enough space for him to wriggle free, if only for a second.

A hand grabbed him by the arm and yanked him to his feet, all but throwing him into a gap in the chaos a few feet away. Podrick turned in time to see the glint of Ser Jaime’s golden hand as he fought off more of the dead at his back, scything them down with a calculated precision that would rival the God of Death.

Pod wheeled around on the spot, searching for the blonde hair that would mark out Ser Brienne to him. He couldn’t find her. The crowds were too thick, the living and the dead fighting for space in every direction. There were too many grunts and yells and screams to single out her voice amidst the raucous. There was snow and dirt and blood everywhere he tried to look, hanging in the air, clinging to faces, obscuring the bodies already gathering on the ground.

 _Keep your blade up_ , she’d told him. _Remember what you’ve learnt_.

Podrick raised his sword again, adjusted his stance, and swung.

The call to fall back couldn’t have come too soon. Relief coursed through him as he recognised her voice, even as he dodged away from another of the dead. The faces of the living beside him were desperate; a chance to retreat to Winterfell was only a promise of temporary safety if they could make it as far as the castle gates.

He’d never been a fast runner, but as death nipped at his heels Podrick tore across the blood-stained fields towards the castle, sword clutched desperately at his side. He’d twisted his head round once or twice to gauge the distance between himself and the danger at his back, slowing just the once to decapitate one of them with a swing even Ser Brienne would have commended.

She caught him by the arm as he finally reached the gates, her eyes pausing on his face in an unspoken question. _Are you okay_? He nodded. She mirrored him, pushing him back into motion, urging him to go. Ser Jaime was only a few paces away, his attention fixed on the threat following them back behind the lines. He clapped Pod on the shoulder as he staggered past. _They were both still alive. Lord Tyrion and Lady Sansa were safe in the crypt. That was something, at least._

He wasn’t sure how he came to be on the battlements, couldn’t remember coming up here at all, but somehow he’d found his way up the stone steps to join the lines of other terrified soldiers. Shaking hands. Gasping breaths. Fear illuminated on their faces, the flames from the trench the Red Woman had lit reflected in the deep black of their pupils.

Ser Brienne and Ser Jaime had taken up station there too, the only pictures of relative calm amongst them. Podrick recognised the square of Ser Brienne’s shoulders, the steely determination she so often adopted, a promise that whatever force came at her would not defeat her.

And Ser Jaime-

It occurred to Pod then that he’d never actually seen Ser Jaime fight before today. He’d heard the tales, of course. Who hadn’t? But those had been stories of another man, not the one who’d had his sword hand severed at the wrist. That had been a man of Lannister blood loyal to his family and no-one else, not the man who had ridden hundreds of miles alone to stand in defiance of his queen. That had been a man who had commanded the respect of his soldiers, who had been trusted to a fault, not the man who had only been permitted to remain in the North because Ser Brienne had vouched for him.

But maybe none of that mattered. Maybe it didn’t make a difference who had already fought whom, who had what experience of fighting. After all, their opponents weren’t living men.  
The dead came for them once more.

They scaled the walls somehow, throwing themselves atop one another, desperate to crest the wall and attack the living forces they found there.

The world was on fire: that was the only way Podrick could possibly describe it. Everything burned orange around him; the snarling faces that leapt at him, the panicked expressions of the living, the fog that fell around them in a haze. He could barely breathe. He needed to stop, needed just a moment to gather himself together, to stop the tremor of his hands and force away the fear gripping at his chest. But he couldn’t stop. He’d be dead the moment he did.

Ser Brienne and Ser Jaime were still alive. They were fighting back to back a few feet away from him, swords flying with expert precision. The sound of their blades through the air alone was enough to make Pod’s own swordsmanship seem clumsy, but he tried not to dwell on it. _You’re a better swordsman than you know_ , Ser Brienne had told him. All he had to do was hold his own until the last of the dead fell.

If that time ever came.

The dead were falling. They littered the walkways, slumped against the walls of the battlements, although he couldn’t ignore the significant number of men’s faces that lay amongst those of the long deceased. The dead could be beaten. They were slowing them down, at least, and hopefully they could hold them back long enough for… well, in truth, Podrick wasn’t sure what the battle plan had been, hadn’t been privy to Jon Snow and the Dragon Queen’s war council, but whatever they had planned, whatever final blow they meant to deal, he hoped it would come sooner rather than later. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep fighting.

There was movement by his feet.

The dead were rising.

Not the dead who had already advanced on them. _Their_ dead. Winterfell’s army, Stark sigils on their armour.

The bright blue of their eyes froze him where he stood.

The whistle of a blade swinging past him snapped him back to his senses. Ser Jaime was in front of him, sword raised above the body of the dead northern soldier he’d just killed. No, you couldn’t kill what was already dead. That was a House Greyjoy saying, wasn’t it? _What is dead may never die_.

No. This wasn’t the time to become lost in his thoughts. Ser Jaime glanced back at him, and Podrick saw his lips move, but the words were lost under the growling of the army rising to their feet once more. It didn’t matter; Podrick didn’t need to hear the words to get the meaning of them. _Focus_. _Keep fighting_. _Don’t give in now_.

Gods, he was exhausted. How long would it be before his legs gave out beneath him? How long until he couldn’t lift his arms to swing his sword anymore? How long before fatigue clouded his brain, before one of the dead reached him while Ser Jaime and Ser Brienne were too preoccupied with their own foes to watch his back, before the dead ripped his heart from his chest, tore out his throat, made him one of their own?

He had left King’s Landing four years ago to escape death at the hands of the living. Now he was going to die at Winterfell at the hands of the dead.

He was going to die.

But by the Gods, he’d die fighting.

The dead were falling, and they were staying dead, for now. But the Northmen were falling too, and for every Northman who fell, another dead man rose.

Podrick raised his sword as high as his shoulders would allow him. He steeled himself as two pairs of glowing blue eyes caught sight of him, skeletal bodies inching his way. He’d drawn back his blade, ready to strike with every ounce of power he had left in him.

He curved his sword through the air.

The dead fell before he touched them.

All at once, as if an invisible force had snatched the life from them, they crumpled to the ground and lay still.

The silence that followed descended so quickly that he could hear the blood coursing through his body. His heart beat so furiously in his ears that he doubted he would ever hear another sound again. With every _thudthud_ , words repeated again and again in his mind, stuttering in disbelief. I’m alive. I’m alive. I’m alive.

Gradually the sound of his heartbeat lessened and the world returned to him. He could hear heavy breathing to his right but he couldn’t find the strength to turn his head.

“Ser Jaime?” That was Ser Brienne, somewhere to his side. She was alive.

“I’m alright.” Ser Jaime was alive too, then. They’d survived, all three of them. They’d survived the long night.

But maybe it wasn’t over. The dead had got to their feet again once already; what was to stop them doing so again?

“Podrick?”

He heard her voice, knew he should answer her, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t remember how to speak. He fixed his eyes on the body closest to him, tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword, waited for the telltale flash of blue that would signal the next attack.

“He’s here.” Ser Jaime’s voice again.

Footsteps. The scuff of boots against stone as someone carefully navigated the corpses strewn around them.

“Podrick.”

He could see her from the corner of his eye. Her face was flecked with dirt and blood, her armour stained with gore. It would take him hours to polish that out. He couldn’t turn to look at her. He needed to watch the dead, be ready the moment they began to move, but by some miracle he found his voice, buried somewhere deep inside him.

“Yes, mil-,” he stopped himself. “Ser?”

“I think the dead mean to stay dead now, Pod.” He’d never heard her voice so gentle. “You can lower your sword.”

“Yes, Ser.”

He didn’t move. He wasn’t sure he could.

Ser Brienne took another step in front of him, and he could see her now without having to turn. She sheathed Oathkeeper at her hip and reached out to place a hand over the top of both of his, guiding them down, lowering the blade for him until the tip of the metal connected with the stone with a clink. He twitched at the sound.

“Are you hurt?” She asked him. He took a moment to steady his breathing, then another to think. He was scratched, he knew, battered and bruised and bleeding. But he would live.

“No, Ser.” He took another breath. “Are you?”

“I’m okay.” He managed to tear himself away from the corpse in time to see her give him an unconvincing smile. “Ser Jaime?”

Over her shoulder, Ser Jaime glanced down at himself and nodded. “Still living.”

Podrick became aware of how violently his legs were trembling. He staggered backwards until the metal of his cuirass connected with the wall behind him, and sank carefully to the floor.

Breathe.

Breathe.

Breathe.

Metal clinked against metal again as Ser Brienne joined him on the hard stone ground, Ser Jaime following suit.

“I’m getting too old for battles this demanding,” Ser Jaime said, tipping his head back against the wall. “I’ll leave the next one to the young men.”

Ser Brienne surveyed the scene before them. She sighed quietly, her armour shifting with the rise and fall of her shoulders. “I’d like to think there won’t be another battle like this one.”

Pod had never agreed with her more.

They found their way off the battlements somehow. There were more fallen bodies in the courtyard, beyond the castle gates, in the hallways of Winterfell, inside the crypt, even. They had been so concerned with the dead coming towards them that they had never considered that the dead beneath the castle might rise, too. But Lady Sansa was fine, as was Lord Tyrion. There was nothing they could do for the souls who had been lost.

They ended up in Ser Brienne’s chambers, Ser Jaime included, a bucket of warm water and a cloth in tow. Podrick helped to undo the straps of Ser Brienne’s armour before turning his attention to his own, trying not to dwell on the marks scattered over the metal surface. He’d gathered it up with Ser Brienne’s armour and carried it back to the armoury without a word, setting it out ready to polish when he got a chance. Breastplates and pauldrons and mail already littered the shelves and the floors, covered in various dark stains that didn’t bear thinking about; he breathed through his mouth to lessen the stench of blood. He caught sight of his reflection more than once in the surfaces of the metal, although he’d barely recognised himself at first. He could hardly see his face through the grime clinging to his skin.

Ser Jaime handed him the cloth the moment he returned to Ser Brienne’s chambers. The water was already beginning to change colour, the product of already having been used twice before him, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. It would clear most of the dirt away, enough to make him look like himself again, at the very least.

The room was silent but for the sound of the cloth being dipped into the water and the fire Ser Brienne was stoking crackling to life.

“I can do that, Ser.” Pod cleaned the last of the dirt from his face and let the cloth fall into the bucket. Droplets of water ran down his chin; he wiped them away with the back of his hand, glancing briefly at the filth beneath his fingernails.

“Thank you, Podrick, but I’m sure I can manage.”

Ser Jaime yawned, covering his mouth with his golden hand. “I’m afraid I may have to retire for the night. I don’t doubt there’ll be work to do come the morning.”

Of course. The bodies, not so much scattered across the grounds of Winterfell but piled high in some areas, would need to be dealt with. The castle defences would need tending to. Weapons and armour would need mending. And it wasn’t as if they had a full army to assist with the tasks at hand.

“Goodnight, Ser Jaime.” Ser Brienne met his eyes with such intimacy that Podrick felt the need to look away. He remembered then the look Ser Jaime had given Ser Brienne before the horn had sounded and called them to battle, and he realised what must have been obvious all along.

Ser Jaime bowed to her, nodded at Podrick, and left the room abruptly.

“You should get some rest too.” Ser Brienne sank into the chair by the fireplace. “I’ll find you in the morning.”

“You don’t need anything, Ser?”

She smiled. “You’re a good squire, Podrick.”

“And you’re a good knight.”

She smiled wider, happiness warring with exhaustion on her face. “I believe it may be too early to make any judgments on that just yet.”

“I don’t agree, Ser. You’ve been a good knight since I met you in King’s Landing. The only thing that’s changed is that now other people recognise you for what you are.”

She shook her head, slowly, carefully, but he didn’t think she was disagreeing with him.

“Get some rest, Pod,” she said again. He bowed.

“And you, Ser. Goodnight.”

He wasn’t lodged far from Ser Brienne’s chambers, but every step felt like a mile as he wound his way along the corridors. Only one of the three squires he shared the room with was inside when he finally pushed the door open; he tried not to think about what had become of the other two. His limbs grew heavy as he crossed to his bed, collapsing down onto it as soon as he was close enough. He summoned enough energy to kick off his boots, threw back the blanket, and let sleep swallow him whole.

*

It was light when he woke. They couldn’t hope to see the sun anytime soon, but the silver glow of a winter morning shone through at the window.

Podrick lay still for a moment. Every inch of him ached. He imagined he wouldn’t feel dissimilar to the way he did now if he’d simply stood still during the battle and allowed himself to take blow after blow, such were the bruises that covered his body. He closed his eyes, relishing in the peace of the moment.

His eyes snapped open again.

It was morning. The other squire was nowhere to be seen. The fire had died to nothing in the grate. He’d slept in.

He sat up so suddenly that tears sprang to his eyes, his shoulders screaming in protest. He blinked them away as he pulled on his boots; he was out the door a second later.

Ser Brienne wasn’t in her chambers. He cursed himself under his breath, running a hand through his hair as he wheeled on the spot. The courtyard, perhaps? If anyone would be in the midst of the fallout of the battle, it would be her. He would find her there. He was sure of it.

He spotted her the moment he stepped outside. Half a dozen Northmen Podrick couldn’t name crowded in front of her, dividing as she delegated tasks to them. He skidded to a stop on the icy ground beside her, an apology already forming on his tongue, but she waved the words away before he could speak them aloud.

“It’s fine, Podrick,” she dismissed. “We need more hands moving the bodies. Are you up to that?”

“Yes, Ser.” Through the open gates he could see the neat lines already forming, bodies placed on pyres stretching back in lines of hundreds, if not more.

“Thank you.” She nodded him towards a group of soldiers at the foot of the battlements, corpses passing from one man to the next in a procession, the long-dead and the newly-dead alike. They would all have to be burnt. It was the only way to be sure they stayed dead, once and for all.

Podrick found a place alongside the other soldiers at the summit of the battlement steps, handing bodies down to be passed to the men on the ground. With every new body that was handed along, he wondered if this would be the one whose eyes snapped open to reveal blue, whose hand came up to squeeze the life out of him. Relief washed over him with every body he shouldered on to the next man, and just as quickly his fear returned when the next found its way into his hands.

Podrick passed on the bodies as quickly as he dared.

It was early afternoon before they burnt them. The Red Woman who had cast the fire. Theon Greyjoy, who had saved him from the Bolton soldier when they’d found Lady Sansa. Ser Jorah, the Dragon Queen’s most trusted advisor. Lady Mormont, as fearsome a warrior as any man three times her size. Thousands of Northmen, Wildlings, Dothraki, Unsullied, laid out on pyres as far as the eye could see.

Jon Snow stood front and centre, his face more haggard than any other man among them, his voice hoarse as he delivered the eulogy. The Starks were alongside him: Lady Sansa. Lord Bran. Even Lady Arya had made a rare appearance. Pod had heard whispers that she had been the one to deliver the blow that killed the Night King, and he couldn’t say he was surprised; he’d seen her spar with Ser Brienne, after all.

They stood silent in the snow as the flames consumed the dead. Smoke rose high above them, tendrils curling and flickering until they became indistinguishable from the grey clouds above. Podrick tried to ignore the smell that accompanied it, the unmistakably suffocating scent of death.

They watched the fires burn until the sun began to set.

*

Podrick had never really understood why noble houses felt the need to throw celebrations so soon after battles. The dead were barely gone. The pyres had only been cleared away that morning. They may have defeated the dead, but the living had hardly escaped unscathed.

“It’s a distraction,” Ser Brienne said. “No good can come from lingering on what’s passed. We’re alive. Lady Arya killed the Night King. We should celebrate that. It’ll do us all good to get a little drunk.”

Podrick smiled.

It was a distraction, and a welcome one at that. The last time he’d sat with both Lannister brothers and Ser Brienne they’d been waiting to die, but somehow, miraculously, they’d all lived to see the other side.

And this time he didn’t have to hide how much wine he was drinking.

He wasn’t sure how they’d ended up playing drinking games with Lord Tyrion. It wasn’t as if they could beat him: he made up the rules as he saw fit. It had started harmlessly enough. Questions about who was an only child and who had danced with whom, how many times they had been married and who preferred wine to ale. If someone had told him, years ago, that he would one day be drinking House Stark’s wine with the Kingslayer and the Imp and a woman reluctant to be lumbered with him in the first place, would he have believed them? Not in seven hells. But it had come to be, somehow. There were easy laughs and teasing smiles and their company just felt _right_. But Pod wouldn’t dream of calling them a family. Of course he wouldn’t. It wasn’t his place to compare himself to two high-born lords and a lady, not when he was nothing but a squire. Besides, he didn’t have any memory of what being part of a family felt like to compare it to.

No, he wouldn’t call them a family. Not out loud, at least.

Lord Tyrion raised his cup and narrowed his eyes across the table at Ser Brienne. She smiled back at him, waiting.

He announced to them, in no uncertain terms, that she was a virgin.

And then, very abruptly, the laughter died away. Podrick took a long swig of wine just so he wouldn’t have to see the humiliation in her eyes. The light that had been there moments ago was gone, extinguished as if it had never been there at all. She stood, the bench scraping against the floor, and left under the guise of needing to piss, edging round the strange wildling man who couldn’t seem to let her alone. Ser Jaime cut him off before he could follow her, disappearing from the room in her wake.

Lord Tyrion refilled his cup, raised it to the wildling and left without another word.

Podrick looked up at the wildling man and tried not to think about the milk he’d seen him pour into his beard the other night. He smiled pleasantly, admittedly fuelled more by the wine than by a genuine desire to be left alone with the stranger.

The wildling grunted and walked away. Podrick tried not to take it personally.

He’d already resigned himself to an evening on his own as he turned in his seat to take in the room. He raised his cup to take another sip, and stopped.

A girl a few tables away caught his eye and smiled. He beamed back, got to his feet, and crossed the room to join her.

*

It didn’t take a master of whispers to note the difference in the way Ser Brienne and Ser Jaime treated one another. They met each other’s eyes now when longing looks were cast. There was none of the awkward fumbling there had been before, the scepticism from her, the defensiveness from him. Pod had even run into Ser Jaime leaving her chambers one morning, although he hadn’t said a word to Ser Brienne about it. It had been too late to duck into a doorway before Ser Jaime could see him, so he’d settled for bowing his head and bidding him good morning, as if it were a common occurrence for the two of them to run into each other first thing in that part of the castle. Ser Jaime had stared at him, his face blank as he searched his mind for the best possible way to proceed. In the end he’d nodded in return and carried on along the hallway, albeit more quickly than before, his face flushing red under the dark blond of his hair.

Podrick thought it best not to mention it again.

As it turned out, Lord Tyrion was the one to announce that they all knew. They’d found a tavern in Wintertown to drink at, although not a popular one, judging by the way the tavern keeper had started violently at the sound of the door swinging open. It was to be expected, he supposed: the number of potential patrons had somewhat taken a hit in recent weeks. Luckily for the tavern keeper, the Lannisters had a high tolerance for alcohol and deep pockets to match.

“It worked out rather well for the two of you the last time we sorry souls drank together,” Lord Tyrion said, leaning across the table to smile smugly at Ser Brienne and Ser Jaime.

Podrick choked on his ale.

Ser Brienne’s shoulders stiffened as she turned to Ser Jaime, her eyes wide. Ser Jaime looked rather like a child caught in a lie.

Then his face broke into a grin, and he laughed. The tension left Ser Brienne’s face immediately, giving way to an embarrassed smile, and Podrick looked across at Lord Tyrion and grinned.

The tavern door opened with more force than necessary, strong enough to shake the building’s foundations, but Podrick didn’t look around until he heard the familiar voice behind him.

“What have we here?”

“Ser Bronn,” Lord Tyrion greeted. “What a pleasant surprise. Although I must say that I’m surprised to see you this far north.”

“Your sister sent me here to kill you,” Bronn spoke as calmly as if he’d been remarking on the snowfall outside. “Both of you.”

“I can’t say I’m surprised.” Ser Jaime took another sip of his drink.

“What did she promise you?” Lord Tyrion asked, waving a hand at the tavern keeper to attract his attention. “Another ale, my friend.”

“Riverrun,” Bronn dragged a chair across the floor and made himself comfortable at the table, “and a wagon of gold besides.”

“Riverrun,” Lord Tyrion hummed. He glanced briefly at the tavern keeper, smiling gratefully as he set a cup of ale in front of Bronn.

“You promised to double whatever she paid me.”

“I did. What’s double Riverrun, do you suppose?” Lord Tyrion frowned at his brother. Ser Jaime shrugged.

“Gods if I know.”

“Highgarden,” Lord Tyrion said with a nod. “You’d be Lord of the Reach.”

“I believe Highgarden belongs to the Tarly boy,” Ser Jaime tipped his head in thought. “It isn’t ours to give away.”

“The boy wants to be a maester; I’m sure he’d be relieved to have it taken off his hands.”

“We could always…” Ser Jaime pretended to think, “kill Ser Bronn for threatening us in the first place.”

“But I have so few friends left,” Lord Tyrion sipped his wine. “What say you, Ser Bronn? Will Highgarden satisfy your needs?”

“And you’ll double the gold?”

Lord Tyrion sighed. “And I’ll double the gold.”

Bronn raised his ale. “Always a pleasure doing business with you.” He downed his drink in one and thumped the empty cup against the table. “Another pint!” He called to the wide-eyed tavern keeper. “Actually, you know what, just leave the fucking jug and I’ll help myself.”

He noticed the other two at the table then.

“Where are my manners?” He asked with an exaggerated bow of the head. “Good evening, my lady.”

“Ser,” Lord Tyrion corrected. “Ser Brienne.”

“Oh, aye?” Bronn raised his eyebrows. “My congratulations, Ser Brienne.”

“Thank you, Ser Bronn.” She curled her fingers into the palms of her hands as she waited for the jape that would follow, her mouth set in a thin line. But no jape came. Slowly, she relaxed and reached for her own ale.

“And look at this,” Bronn grinned as he turned his attention to Pod, reaching across to punch him in the shoulder. Pod resisted the urge to rub away the ache. ‘Podrick fucking Payne. I’m not gonna lie to you, lad, I’m always surprised to see you alive.”

“Thank you,” Podrick deadpanned. Ser Jaime snorted.

“Even those creepy fuckers from beyond the wall couldn’t kill you, eh?”

Podrick smiled into his ale.

“Podrick Payne,” Bronn whistled. “Lover of ladies, slayer of the dead. You a Ser now, too?”

“No,” he replied. “Not just yet.”

Bronn wheeled on the other faces at the table, incredulous. “You’re doling out knighthoods like a bad case of the pox and you didn’t knight him too?”

“Nobody’s doling out anything,” Podrick interjected. “Ser Brienne deserved to be made a knight. She always did.”

“And you don’t?” Lord Tyrion asked.

“I don’t believe I’ve earnt it yet, milord.”

Four pairs of eyes weighed on him.

“Podrick,” Ser Brienne began. She faltered, shook her head and tried again. “That’s the most ridiculous thing ever to come out of your mouth.”

“Which is saying something,” Bronn scoffed.

“Was Ser Jaime wrong to knight me?” Ser Brienne asked pointedly.

Podrick gaped at her. “Of course not, Ser.”

“Because I’d earnt it.”

“Yes, Ser.”

“Pod,” Ser Brienne looked very much like she was resisting the urge to reach over and shake him. “Everything I’ve done since leaving King’s Landing, you’ve done too. Finding Lady Arya. Saving Lady Sansa from the Boltons. _Fighting the dead_.”

“But you were part of Renly Baratheon’s guard before that, Ser,” Podrick reminded her. “I wasn’t. And you fulfilled your oath to Lady Catelyn.”

“And you fought at the Blackwater,” Lord Tyrion said. “You saved the life of a lord. Men were knighted for less.”

“That’d better not be a shot at me,” Bronn warned.

“You told me once you wanted to be a knight, Pod,” Brienne said. “Did that change?”

“No, Ser. I…” Pod turned his attention to the stains on the cup in his hand, biting down on his tongue.

“Podrick.”

He tried not to wince at the edge in her voice. He swirled the ale around in his cup, hoping the conversation might move on without him if he stayed quiet, but he could still feel them watching him. Reluctantly, he dragged his eyes back to her face.

“You waited so long to be a knight,” he shook his head, “it doesn’t seem fair for me to become one so soon after you.”

Something unreadable flickered across her face.

“Ser Brienne should have been recognised for her achievements a long time ago,” Ser Jaime agreed. “Tradition deprived Westeros of one of its most worthy knights for years too long. There’s nothing I can do to change that now.” He reached for Widow’s Wail. “But I can make sure it isn’t deprived of another worthy knight any longer.”

“No.”

Ser Jaime paused. Ser Brienne had spoken, her eyes fixed on her hand where it rested on Oathkeeper’s hilt. She swallowed, nodded to herself, and rose to her feet.

“I told you before I couldn’t knight you,” she said carefully. He remembered. It had been after both Stark girls had refused their help, by the fireside the day he’d told her about his family and she’d told him about Renly, when she’d promised she’d teach him how to fight.

Brienne moved away from the table into the open space in the centre of the room. She drew Oathkeeper from its sheath, the metal blade ringing in his ears.

“I couldn’t then. I can now.”

Pod’s heart was in his throat.

She gestured to the space in front of her, Oathkeeper ready at her side, and finally met his eye. “Kneel, Podrick Payne.”

Podrick opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He stared at her, blinking owlishly.

He didn’t move.

“Some of us are getting on, Pod,” Bronn aimed a kick at his shins. “Get your arse over there and kneel before us old fucks keel over and die.”

He managed to find his feet, clutching at the edge of the table until his legs stopped shaking. Ser Brienne waited, twirling her blade in small circles.

Somehow he made it over to her. It took him another moment and an encouraging nod before he remembered how to kneel. He could feel the rough stone floor through his breeches.

He stared at the ground as she lifted the point of her sword to his shoulder. He couldn’t bring himself to look up, not until he could be sure the tears in his eyes had well and truly gone.

“In the name of the warrior, I charge you to be brave.” He could still feel himself shaking; he hoped it wasn’t obvious.

“In the name of the father, I charge you to be just.” He realised then he’d forgotten to breathe, exhaling as she lifted Oathkeeper to his shoulder a final time.

“In the name of the mother, I charge you to defend the innocent.” He risked a glance up at her then, and she was only a little blurry in his eyes. Good.

“Arise, Podrick Payne,” she bit back her smile, forcing herself to maintain her gravitas as she spoke the words. “A knight of the seven kingdoms.”

There was no stopping the grin on his face. He beamed at her as he rose to the applause of the three men at the table, his hands still trembling by his sides.

“Thank you, Ser,” he bowed his head to her as they returned to the table. She rested her hand on his shoulder and squeezed.

“It was my honour, Ser Podrick.”

“Ser Podrick!” Lord Tyrion echoed, raising his cup.

“Ser Podrick,” Ser Jaime repeated, lifting his own ale high.

“Ser Podrick.” Bronn rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t quite suppress his smile. He lifted his cup and toasted him with a fond shake of the head, and Podrick laughed despite himself.

Podrick Payne wasn’t a bad squire, not in the end.

And when all was said and done, he was a damn good knight too.


End file.
